How to be a Holy Mess: Chapter III

The Dream
I was back at Ella G Clarke Elementary School in the auditorium. It was empty as I made my way up the darkened theatre aisle to the stage where my current Bishop, Roger White was standing at a table. He was dressed in the full Episcopal drag—mitre, (that weird hat) and all. As I walked down the aisle, I proudly touted a lunch box. It was one of those old fashioned kind of lunchboxes—the kind that I associate with blue-collar workers of ‘50’s-- black, metal, and arched- top. However the arch-top of this lunch box was translucent. Inside sat my lunch. A perfectly cute lamb,

almost cartoon-like, she had blue eyes with long lashes and peach colored hooves. She even had one of those darling little Christian flags that one sees churchy medieval lambs holding—the kind with the red and white cross on them—a real honest to goodness Agnes Dei Lamb!

I proudly sported my lunch down the aisle, up the stage and to the altar. The Bishop was saying Mass and holding up the wafer, talking to the cookie, as I like to call it. As I stood there watching him say the Mass, I leaned over to the bishop and asked when lunch was. Soon he told me. Good I said back. I wondered if he might exchange lunches with me. The concept of eating such a cute little lamb was not at all appealing.

So there I stood with Bishop White on the stage of my childhood theatre. He held a ratty brown paper bag in his hand and I had my little cartoon lamb in the lunch box. Carefully, slowly he handed me his paper sack and I gave him my box. We kept our eyes glued on each other—afraid that one of us might abscond with both lunches I suppose. I remember such trades in childhood. With the exchange at last brokered each of us turned away to check out the spoils of our swap. Reaching my hand into the bag, I pulled out a small-bloodied, dirty body the size of a baby bird. The body of Christ lay in my hand. My hand was now stained with mud, piss and blood. His skin was stretched thin across his chest and ribs. I could see his heart and lungs struggling for life as he lay in my hands dying. This was my feast. I looked up into my Bishop’s blue twinkling knowing eyes.
***
I don’t remember much of that last discernment meeting. I know that I shared my dream and said that I desired to exchange this perfect Agnes Dei Lamb image for a messy existence.

I remember we laughed. They had been waiting for me to be me with them. I was and life has been a mess ever since.

How to be a Holy Mess: Chapter II

I started down my lovely messy path in 1998 while living in Wisconsin. Jeff that long time friend was my priest then and I was in discernment to become a priest. Talk about chaos—if you ever want to encounter a mess, try becoming a priest—it’s a circus of red tape voodoo, woo-woo choo-choo churchy lingo—words like calling, discernment and vocation, countless committees, batteries of psychological tests which of course include flaming hoops to jump through like a well trained tiger. One of the first committees that I met with was at my parish, St. Christopher’s. Quite often we sat in silence. It was awkward at first, but comfortable in time. It was kind of like a Quaker meeting—a member of my discernment committee would say something and then there was silence.

Later, someone else might respond. What I remember most is my fear. I was afraid that I didn’t have my shit together.
I was afraid to really share how God spoke to me. As if… God speaking… I hear those words and I think of Charlton Heston on Mount Sinai as Moses. I wish it were that clean for me.

For me, God shows up in children, poetry and dreams. I was reticent to share that—that couldn’t possibly be what they wanted to hear… how messy that is: children are way too honest and transparent and noisy to be God’s Messengers… and poetry… well… we won’t even go there… but poetry is the space of prayer for me. Poetry is the boat that Christ invites me to get into—it is the way I am transported from one place to another, but that’s not very clean…

And dreams, well dreams… once in a galaxy far far away (well actually Florida) I had an interview (of sorts) for a church job (of sorts… this is a whole ‘nother story) and a member of the interview committee told me that dreams and their interpretation were the work of the occult and Satan. Lovely! That’s clean and easy, right?

But my good old royal messiness had to argue back sardonically ( yes, right in the middle of the interview) “Well, I replied, “So much for good old Joe in Genesis who has dreams and interprets them for others… or good old Joe in Matthew (you know, Jesus’ step-dad?) who has dreams as well and listens to them… yes, absolutely, me and the Joes are really tight with Satan.”

Needless to say in the galaxy in Florida for the job interview at a church far far away, my messy self did not get the job.

So, Dreaming, God and talking about it in the church went underground with my mess—after all, I had to be neat and dreams, well, they just aren’t usually neat and tidy… at least mine aren’t. Given my experience, perhaps you understand why I chose to hide.

Somehow, I thought my Church Discernment Committee wanted Cecil B. Demille and thunderbolt clarity—which I couldn’t deliver. I knew it wasn’t going well in my meetings— the heavens hadn’t once parted, there were no doves descending, no booming voices coming from the sky only silence and my half hearted attempts to be neat and tidy… which is not what I am called to be…

God’s call to me is clear in my heart.

God speaks to me in the colors of morning
Irises blooming with fragrance sweetly arousing,
God whispers in the song of birds,

“Come and play with me.
Play in the dirt of the garden
sleep in the morning and dream.

Come and play with me.
Pull out the play-doh
and laugh with children
until tears are streaming down your face
or you are so caught up
transfixed in wonder of their imaginations
that linear time ceases to matter
and holy time takes over.

Come and play with me.”

But who in their right mind inside the church would want to hear such mess? Certainly not the discernment team who held my calling in their hands… if the people of the good church in Florida that were in a galaxy far far away didn’t want to hear that mess, why would the church discernment committee in Wisconsin want it either?

I was really puzzled—didn’t they want neat & tidy? Why wasn’t it going well? I somehow knew that they were waiting for something… but what?

It was a Saturday night before a discernment committee meeting. I had decided that the next day I would fess up—I find a bigger sense of self, life and reality (call that God if you like) in my dreams. I said my usual prayer that night before sleeping—Holy Spirit, breath of life, fire that burns in me, send me dreams and vision. And that night I dreamed.

How to be a Holy Mess

Come and be messy…
I believe that everyone in their journey through life has one or two themes that play over and over again—our life themes are constantly resurfacing. One of my life themes is being a mess. Not too long ago, I was loath to admit this. I cleaned up the messy edges as much as possible and pour on veneer… until until.. the mess resurfaced.

Perhaps it comes from being an off the chart “P” on the Myers-Briggs test. Myers-Briggs of course has become the unofficial astrology for those that find themselves on the spiritual left. I’ve tried to integrate my P over the years, but overall I am a perceiving preferenced person—I hate filing papers, I never know where my keys are and its anyone’s guess which drawer I stuck something in.

Yes, life is a mess, but its much bigger than that. Maybe it started in childhood with a messy room and nagging parents. Jumping in mud puddles on Sundays was an act of protest— I didn’t mind going to church, I just couldn’t stomach the idea that God really gave a damn about what I wore to church. It somehow felt asinine to wear a garment that felt like a medieval torture device. I couldn’t express that as a child so I’d simply ruin perfectly good lace dresses.

Is it the graphic-dyslexia? I know second graders with handwriting better than mine. Believe me, I’m not complaining. Or at least I’m not complaining anymore. I’ve somehow reconciled my mess—I am at peace in my chaos. For whatever reason, my theme or vocation or path is a spiritual journey equivalent to that of Charlie Brown’s friend pigpen. I travel around unknowingly submerged in a cloud of spiritual dust, smiling.

Being a mess resurfaced in my adult life. I ended up in Seminary studying theology and becoming an Episcopal Priest. What could be messier than that? Only my father’s profession, I suppose. As a plumber he swam through shit for a living. But so do I quite often-- just a different kind.

Episcopalians in general are criticized for the level of chaos and mess they allow within their church. A Baptist I knew once accused us Episcopalians of having sloppy agape. That’s sloppy love. A large non-denominational church near my home is rumored to offer course on how to talk to and save your Episcopalian friends. Episcopalians are reputed for being somewhat non-doctrinal, believe what you will but come and pray with us. My long time friend Jeff Lee said it better in an All Saints Day sermon a couple years back— “Belief in God is optional. Living together as a community and praying together is not.”

Being a divorced gay woman priest is a lovely mess. Theology, religion, God, liberals, conservatives, people dying, people in transition and pain, babies being born and baptized for grandma’s sake or for the purposes of fire insurance or because of an intentional practicing of Christian spirituality, all coming together in one place, all thanks to good old Henry the eighth and his lovely daughter, Elizabeth.

Yup, the Episcopal church is a mess and so am I.

Blessed be the messiness that I no longer want to hide-- but instead want to revel in-- like Charlie Brown's friend pigpen: I want to walk around in my own cloud of unknowing, smiling... and messy.

A Prayer

Let us live with uncertainty
as with a friend
to feel certain
means feeling secure
to feel safe is unreal
knowing we do not know is
the only certainty
letting the self be lost into Christ.

Where everybody knows your name...

Ever notice if you talk to churchy "established" folk about their church community one of the things that they will say is, "I love my church because its so warm and friendly."

Warm and Friendly.

Years ago when, back when I was a church geek in the pews instead of the pulpit, the organization that I worked for sent me to a conference on the east coast. It worked out that I had free time on Sunday morning... and yup, you guessed it-- being the church geek I am, I went to... church! I found their ad in my hotel directory-- a local Episcopal church walking distance from my hotel-- warm and friendly their little ad read. Cool.
So off, I went taking their ad at face value... what did I know? I was barely 25!

It was an old historic east coast kind of place. The dude handing out bulletins looked like an old fashioned banker in his three piece pinstripe suit as he handed me a bulletin and a scowl... warm and friendly...

One person obligingly shook my hand at the peace.

As I snuck out after communion, the bulletin guy stopped me short of the exit out onto the street. "Where's your family?" he asked. "Oh," I answered, "I'm single. I don't have a family."

"Oh," he said back and without skipping a beat, "Well, why are you here then?" Yup, warm and friendly church.

Ask most people who belong to a warm and friendly church about new members or growing and they'll most likely tell you," We're not interested in growing-- we like our size-- we're warm and friendly.

I've served and attended a few warm and friendly places and have watched at the Peace and Coffee Hour and other social events as newer people stand near the edges like junior high wall flowers at the school dance waiting and hoping that the cute boy will grace their presence... warm and friendly. I've sat with new member after new member who have cried on my shoulder or shook their head in disbelief because they just couldn't crack their way into the warm and friendly church.

How often I've heard the only thing that keeps me here is your sermons on Sundays. And I've wanted to weep because there should be more to hold people in a community rather than just little old me.

I've sat with leaders in the warm and friendly church as they've asked, "whatever happened to so and so?" And we've suddenly realized that months, not weeks have gone by but because every member in our warm and friendly community is either too busy over functioning doing a million and one ministries or just schlepping in on a Sunday morning for the "show", no one in the warm and friendly community ever noticed the one that fell through the cracks.

Yes, warm and friendly can't seem to value the concept of intentional small circles of people who pray together and maybe check on other members who are part of their smaller prayer circle.

Nope, we'll have none of that-- no smaller circles outside the warm and friendly one.

In the end, of course its the priest's fault that so and so snuck away... priests are to be ober-competent over-functioning cruise directors for the warm and friendly church.

I've talked to members of the warm and friendly community that are starving for deeper fellowship and meaning in their lives, depressed or in grief or simply wanting to pray and discern but because the community was warm and friendly, there was not enough people to develop a circle of disciples to pray together and a create a safe place to ask the hard questions of life. Warm and Friendly was some how more important than discipleship and prayer.

When I've served in the warm and friendly places, I've noticed that quite often what gets sabotaged is being a witness for Jesus Christ in the world to others through invitation to church and offering real hospitality to those who are outside the warm and friendly circle and maybe even outsiders to church or Christianity.

I've also noticed that the priests tend to burn out of such places because the ministry was all about them and when they go, the whole place goes to hell in a hand basket. When its all about the priest, what do you expect? Everyone is so warm and friendly, but where are the disciples who follow Jesus?

My advice to anyone who is even thinking of darkening the doors of a church is to do a little asking around when you arrive-- ask the dude in the suit at the door handing out the church bulletin-- what do you like about this place?

If he answers, "its so warm and friendly," run like hell and then go to brunch instead.